


Sigil Scribbles and Hex Threats

by sarveniraven



Series: Drabble Dump for Productivity 2k15 [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, R and Ponine are besties, Sigils, Witches, Witches!AU, city witches, e being all rude and shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarveniraven/pseuds/sarveniraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire notices Enjolras's scribbled sigils, Enjolras worries about Mundanes, Eponine plans to give Enjolras laryngitis for a week, and business continues as usual.</p>
<p>A little tiny snapshot-type drabble to get me back into that good old writing habit. Unedited and incomplete. May add more later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras, with his tidy apartment and shelves upon shelves of books (which Grantaire had seen once, briefly, when he dropped by to pick up a spell from Combeferre), looked like just the sort of witch to immerse himself in spells and write all of his sigils in neat ink on neat paper and make sure everything was _just so_. Because of that, Grantaire was startled to see hasty pen-scribbled symbols, at least a day old, across the man’s forearms. Perhaps he had always had them, under his long sleeves, but now that he was wearing his sleeves rolled up in the heat of spring, Grantaire was finally able to see them. He stared for a few moments, trying from across the room to read the sloppy symbols. Sigils for courage, hope, inspiration, justice (no surprise there) and, he noted with some amusement, luck. As if someone like Enjolras had any use for luck.

“—we need to make sure that we’re careful, act like Mundanes, at least for now,” the man was saying, blue eyes alight, focused. “If word got out of a group of Witches in the city, people would panic. We don’t need a new Salem.”

“As if they would believe the idea of real Witches,” Grantaire retorted, rolling his own eyes skyward. It was an argument they’d gotten into one too many times, and frankly he was tired of it. The lack of imagination in Mundane society was, put simply, depressing, and he knew they would never believe that actual, honest-to-god witches existed. “You’re wasting your time worrying.”

“Save your pessimism for someone who cares, Grantaire,” Enjolras replied tiredly, for once unable or perhaps unwilling to respond to the other man’s jibes. His fingers rubbed idly at the sigils etched onto his arms. “I don’t have the energy for a drunk idiot’s rambling today.”

Falling completely silent, most of the others in the group swiveled their gaze to Grantaire (he didn’t want their pity, but he knew it came from a good place). The cynic only shrugged in response, ignoring the rising feeling in his chest that felt like he’d been kicked. Focusing his attention on his drink—straight whiskey to combat the cloud of anxiety that already hung especially low today even without Enjolras’s low blow—he managed still to keep his eyes on the man (his angry Apollo, gorgeous even when he was cruel, and apparently oblivious to the silence he’d created now that he was off on an impassioned rant) before him. Eponine squeezed his shoulder but remained silent, and he was grateful that she didn’t verbally acknowledge his pathetic disappointment at Enjolras’s utter dismissal.

When Enjolras had finally finished speaking (and it was a wonder his voice wasn’t hoarse), he dismissed the group to their own devices. Grantaire, as usual, took his time finishing the drink in his hand and leaned in to talk to Eponine.

“I’ve noticed he’s even prettier when he’s mean to me,” he told her with a grin, and she raised her eyebrows.

“After he’s been an absolute asshat, that’s all you’ve got? He’s _pretty_?”

Gesturing with his glass in Enjolras’s general direction, he responded, “That man will never see me as anything but the gum on the bottom of his shoe. I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not that desperate, Grantaire. I’ve seen that look you get when he’s cruel,” she told him, glaring at Enjolras where he spoke quietly to Combeferre. “I might just hex him for that alone.”

“Give him something good, then. Laryngitis for a week, or a coughing fit every time he says ‘revolution,’” Grantaire suggested, downing the rest of his drink in one go and standing quickly, somehow steady. Not enough drink if he wasn’t swaying yet, he thought. Thankfully that was an easy fix. “Now if you’ll excuse me, darling, I have a great need for whatever leftovers are in my fridge. Wine, hopefully.”

“Please eat something with your merlot, you absolute idiot,” she told him sternly, glaring into his eyes until he agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS PIECE IS BEING PUT IN A NEW FIC, SO I'M DELETING IT FROM HERE.

I'm trying to write this into a real fic, so go check out my fic "cities that feel like home" to find it again. <3


End file.
